Here Begins a New Life
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: Just as they are about to celebrate their first anniversary as a couple, John is seriously injured.  Sherlock, and other's wait and hope for a happy outcome, while trying to find the responsible parties. S/J established relationship.
1. John

Warnings – Eventual warnings for violence, major character injury, angst, drama, dirty words, and probably others as I come across them.

A/N – Nothing really to say except I was feeling the urge to be mean to John, so there you have it. Sorry (not really). Title taken from the Dante novel _Vita Nuova._

Disclaimer- I don't own, don't claim to own, and don't really want to own…I'm just playing with them. I'm responsible I'll return them just as I found them, which is honestly more boring that they would be with me. Just sayin'.

Here Begins a New Life

Harry is already standing outside the café when I walk up. She is looking good, very good actually. She's drinking less and eating better. The divorce from Clara has been a good thing after all.

She called me, wanting to go to dinner the day it was finalized. She stared at the glass of water that she'd ordered. "I loved her John, still do probably, but we are like oil and water. It was never going to be pretty." I doubted her then and feel a guilty about it now. No matter how much I loved Clara and disliked Harry's drinking I should have been supportive of my sister. She's the only relative I have left, well for right now anyway.

She smiles when she sees me and I lean over and place a kiss on her cheek.

"So what is going on little brother, why the sudden lunch date?" She glances over her shoulder at me as I hold the door open for her. She has a mischievous glint in her eye. She knows something is going on.

"Can't I just have lunch with my sister?" I smile.

She sits down and I settle across from her. "Not usually, no." She replies, but there is nothing harsh in her words.

She's right, of course. I should make more of an effort, but then so should she. It shouldn't be so difficult.

"John, I'm not complaining. What did you want to talk about?" She's always been able to read me like a book. Very similar to Sherlock, just more annoying.

I reach into my pocket and set the jewelry box in front of her. She reaches for it and a quizzical look crosses her face. She opens it and stares.

"I'm actually scared out of my mind and was hoping you could help give me some courage. I don't really have anyone else to go to." I shrug.

She's staring blankly at the box. She gently runs her fingers over the rings, and starts to laugh. I'm taken aback.

"I'm sorry John." She says between gasps of air. "It's just, I'm probably the last person to ask about anything like this. I have one failed marriage and more unsuccessful relationships than I can count. I could give you words of wisdom, but I'd suggest you do just the opposite."

She looks down at the rings again, a smile on her face. "They're beautiful," she whispers before meeting my eyes again, reaching to hand the box back. "When are you going to ask him?"

"We are going out tonight. He realized the other day that we didn't have a celebration of our one year anniversary as a couple. He's been doing 'research' again and feels this was a failure on his part. He's taking me to dinner and has a present for me. It is 'standard procedure' after all." Harry smiles at this, familiar enough with Sherlock to understand his actions without being critical of them. She's never been critical of him, even in the moments when I have been.

I take a moment and study the rings. It was probably the most stressful decision I've ever made but I am happy with them. If Sherlock agrees to marry me I think he'll like them as well. They are polished platinum, each with 2 dark titanium inlays. High quality and durable, I've heard Sherlock rant about enough wedding rings to know what he values in them. I've already had his engraved, a simple message that I think he'll appreciate. I wonder if he'll do the same to mine. I hope so, because it really is a ring I want to wear forever.

Harry has a knowing smile on her face as I look up. I'm thankful she won't make fun of me. I sigh, close the box and put it back into my coat pocket. "I decided I'd try and surprise him with something as well."

Her smile grows, as she removes her silverware from the napkin. "You know he'll say yes right? He loves you very much. You have little to no reason to be nervous." I let out a deep breath, relieved to hear it even though I won't admit it. I'm by no means as confident as she is, but it's nice to know that I'm not a complete lunatic for hoping.

The waiter comes over, we order, and an amiable silence falls on our table. It's nice to be at a point where I can enjoy my sister again. I'm glad that she's happy. She pulls her mobile out of her purse and quickly checks her email. The life of a solicitor rarely stops for lunch. She's efficient at checking the messages though, taking only a matter of moments to scan through them.

I let my mind wander over ideas of technique and wording. I've never done this before, never even thought about doing it before. It's terrifying. I'm also certain that I won't be able to pull it off as a surprise. It isn't easy to surprise Sherlock. He's able to tell when I'm nervous about football matches; I'm not going to be able to slip 'making forever plans' past him. I can't quite believe that I'm going to try it.

"Relax," she says. I look back to her and there is laughter in her eyes. I nod, trying to redirect my thoughts.

"I'm glad you shared this with me, John. I'm glad you included me." Being suddenly serious makes me a little nervous. We don't do that very well.

"You are my sister." It is as simple as that. We haven't always agreed or even been civil, but when I was in Afghanistan she sent me emails constantly. She'd send care packages every six weeks, extra-large ones that were easy to share on my birthday and Christmas. If someone needed something from back home, I'd ask her and she'd get it, no questions asked. She kept me connected to home and was the person in the London hospital room when I woke up after being shot. She is my sister.

She nods, looking away for a moment. I am just about to reaffirm my sentiment when she speaks.

"I'm really happy for you John. I know it hasn't always been easy between us, but I've always wished you happiness. You deserve it more than anyone. I hope you've always known."

"I have. And I have always wanted the same for you." I respond, surprised the conversation has gone this way. Harry and I are professional at avoiding conversations like this, have been since we were kids.

She nods accepting my words as the food arrives. The conversation instantly turns back to the more superficial, safe. She's having some remodeling work done on her home and she starts explaining the changes she is making. I'm slightly relieved and slightly regretful at the change. I can't help feeling that I'd missed an opportunity to heal some of the older wounds.

As we say our good-byes 30 minutes later she wraps her arms around me and gives me a real hug, holding on for a few seconds longer than comfortable. I won't complain; it feels good. When she finally pulls away she cups my face for just a moment before saying. "Give Sherlock my love and have a great time tonight. Don't worry, he's going to say yes and when he does I better be your first phone call." She kisses my cheek and takes a step back.

"You will be. I promise. And who knows I might need a couch to sleep on if he says no."

She lets out a small chuckle at this. "I have an extra bedroom and you are welcome to it anytime, but you won't need it tonight."

She turns and walks back towards her office. I watch her for a moment before turning and heading back towards the clinic. I feel good about what happened here and smile as I catch myself fidgeting with the jewelry box in my pocket.

I turn onto the street the clinic is on. I let my mind wonder to thoughts of growing old with Sherlock, smiling at the image of grey curls and the comfort of such a long companionship.

I don't notice the man in the alley as I walk by, or his friend. I notice the hand on the back of my neck, but there isn't enough time for me to react. It only takes a fraction of a second for him to drive my head into the wall. I'm vaguely aware of hitting the ground hard and of the image of two men standing above me. They are saying something but I can't make out the words. The vision out of one of my eyes has a red tint. I try to move my head, but can't.

One of the men grabs my collar and we are moving, the concrete pulling on my clothes. We stop suddenly and I see a cricket bat.

The man swings it and the world goes black.


	2. Lestrade

Lestrade 

I got the call from Anderson at 14:30. He'd been called out on a possible homicide and we'd have to reschedule our meeting. Usually it isn't a big deal, but I had hopes of getting out early. I wanted to pick a pub and watch the Champions League Final. It had become apparent that that wasn't going to happen though; I couldn't leave until I met with Anderson about our testimony for court on Monday. Anderson wasn't going to be available for hours. I would be catching up on paperwork.

My phone rang again at 15:00. It was Anderson, again. I'd hoped that there had been some misunderstanding and that he was on his way up to me now. I doubted it, but in the milliseconds it took me to answer the call I hoped. I hoped for beer and football. That hope was crushed almost immediately.

"It's Dr. Watson." He said a hint of concern in his voice. It was that concern that surprised me more than anything else. Anderson was, or rather, Anderson is a prick. He'd never shown the slightest hint of concern for another human being before. I was so surprised that it took me a long moment to process his words. Watson, Dr. Watson…

"John?" I asked. "Dr. John Watson?" Concern spread through me as well. I stood up grabbing my coat as I did so. I headed for the door before Anderson replied.

"Yes." He said. "Apparently, he didn't return from lunch. One of the doctor's came out back to smoke and noticed the relatively fresh pool of blood and a mobile. He recognized it."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I asked reaching the lifts. I hit the button and the doors didn't immediately open so I headed for the stairs. "Has anyone called Sherlock? Who's the lead there? Where's the body?"

Anderson was quiet for a moment before answering me. I looked at my screen to make sure the call hadn't dropped. "Ander…"

"There isn't a body." He paused. "There's a lot of blood, a lot. There are drag marks from the street down the alley and to the back of the building. Then there are more drag marks to the next alley, but no body. He's missing."

_Holy Fuck_, I thought. "What about Sherlock?" I asked, either he had done it or he was going on a rampage. We needed to try and rope him in as soon as possible.

"They can't find him." Anderson said. I could hear he was moving now, walking the crime scene maybe. I doubted he was making this call in ear shot of whoever the hell the lead investigator was. "The clinic tried a couple of times but got no answer. Then the officers tried a couple more times with the same result. One of the doctors mentioned that John was having lunch with his sister, so they finally got in touch with her. She works just a few blocks away and is on her way over here."

"I'll be right there, too." I slammed the phone close and exited the building. I had never met John's sister, but I sure as hell hoped she'd help us with Sherlock. Assuming, of course, it wasn't him we were looking for.

I made it to the scene in 8 minutes. Anderson was right; there was a lot of blood. Although, as a police officer for almost 20 years I've learned that it always looks like much more than it actually is. The CID was already hard at work photographing, labeling, and sketching. There were dozens, maybe even a hundred of the little tags marking blood droplets or evidence. It was a hell of crime scene.

I walked up to Donovan, who'd obviously heard from somewhere else because she was on vacation as of yesterday morning. She was standing with a woman who I was able to identify right away. John's sister, she looked a great deal like him. I was relieved to see that she wasn't hysterical or even crying for that matter. She looked alarmed and concerned, but her composure was fully in place.

Donovan introduced us.

"John's talked about you on several occasions; it's nice to meet you." She said, offering me a forced smile. I returned the sentiment and turned to Donovan.

Before I could even open my mouth she spoke. "We don't know where he is? We've all tried his phone, even Ms. Watson; it's going right to voice mail. They haven't sent anyone around to check the flat yet though. So…" she trailed off.

_So, I still had time to get there first_. I finished for her silently. Harry just watched the interaction between us in silence.

Then, just as I was about to turn away, she said, almost in a whisper. "They were going to celebrate their anniversary tonight." She looked away from us, towards where the men in the blue suits were methodically marking spots of blood that might very well be her brother's. Her lip quivered for a second, but she pushed it down. "John was going to propose."

The words sank like an anvil between the three of us. The silence was buzzing and tense. After a moment I walked over to the CID truck, pulled the evidence bag containing John's mobile out, breaking half a dozen laws at least, and headed back to my car. I drove. Fast.

Sherlock is on the floor vacuuming under the couch when Mrs. Hudson finally lets me in. Mrs. Hudson had told me, as we walked up the stairs, that Sherlock had been diligently cleaning all morning as a surprise for John. My stomach sank, but I didn't let on. Obviously, Sherlock isn't the one who hurt John Watson. And I realize just how much worse this makes the case.

I close the distance between us and he notices my feet before looking up at me. He smiles a moment before making a grand gesture with his hand. "I'd tell you to search away Inspector, but I doubt you have a warrant. I'm too busy today to help you. It'll have to wait."

He turns to continue his work and I pull the bag out of my pocket. The movement draws his attention back to me. He frowns, looking at the bag before he realizes what it is.

"I'm here about John." I say, kicking the off button on the vacuum with my foot. The room goes suddenly quiet and in the same instant the man in front of me goes from pale, to ashen, to almost translucent.


	3. Sherlock

Sherlock

I am aware of all of it. Every noise, smell, and sight slip easily into my brain floating and swirling like a tornado of information. I can't manage to focus on any of them. I can't follow a thought to its conclusion without getting distracted by an image of John.

Donovan is on the phone on the steps of the clinic. They've closed it, obviously, but are continuing to interview the doctors and staff inside. Sally is giving a description of John to someone else, this is the third time I've heard her do it. I'm trying desperately not to realize that she's talking to morgues and hospitals. Her voice is stressed, her words heavy. She's worried, about John. He's her friend. He remembers her birthday. She's trying to find him.

Anderson is showing unusual competence, organizing his team with efficiency and intelligence. I can see no piece of blood or evidence that they might have missed. Granted, I'm not standing too close. I can't…I can't quite go over there yet. John was… he was over there. He was hurt, over there.

My throat aches.

Lestrade is on the phone next to Harry. He's yelling and cussing which is generally out of character when dealing with his co-workers. He's trying to get the CCTV footage from the cameras on either end of the block. Based on his words they are telling them he'll have to wait for the official request to go through. He is displeased with this response. I should tell him not to worry, Mycroft will get them. But Lestrade is worried and doing something, yelling is helping him.

I received a text message from Mycroft on the way here. Lestrade had been on his phone, talking to whomever one talks to about these things, getting himself put in charge of the case. Mycroft's message was simple. "Just heard. Am working on it."

I didn't reply; it wasn't necessary.

Lestrade will handle this through all the official channels. Mycroft will let me kill whoever did this.

I'm sitting in a police car with the door open staring at the whole scene. I don't look well, that's obvious from the looks I've been getting from those who pass by. And from the look on Harry's face when I arrived.

Our eyes had locked the minute I stepped out of the car. There was an unspoken moment of greeting and understanding and we haven't looked at each other again. I feel with absolute certainty that as soon as I speak to her, as soon as we each become aware of the other's fear, this will become real.

I don't want this to be real. It can't be real. It' can't be John – not my John.

It is though, that much is obvious, even to my malfunctioning mind. They type matched the blood. It was the same type as John's. It is his mobile that was found by the puddle of blood. The time matches up with when he had lunch with Harry. And he isn't here. John is too responsible to just not return to work.

John would never let me worry like this. Ever.

Most importantly, and I'd never voice this out loud, but I can feel it. I can feel it's him. I can feel he is in pain. I don't think he's dead; that would feel different. I'd be dead if he was dead. My life will cease the minute John's does. I know this for certain. He is alive.

The alternative is unacceptable.

John is somewhere and he is hurt.

And I have to find him.

I stare down at the plastic bag I'm still holding in my hands. His mobile, the one I bought him after The Fight, is secure inside. I'm going to have to buy him another one when this is over, and probably a different model. I do not like the karma, which I don't believe in, associated with this one.

I sigh and set the bag on the floor of the patrol car. It can't be my talisman anymore. I close my eyes and bring up an image of John. I have, literally, thousands of them both still photos and little snippet videos stored in various places in my memory.

I rely on one of my favorites.

_I was frustrated because my experiment wasn't going well. I'd been examining the contents of one of the test tubes that had obviously been contaminated in some way. John chuckled and I looked up to glare at him. He'd been leaning against the kitchen counter. He had on his grey pyjama bottoms that were too long and dragged on the floor at his heels. They were resting low on his hips and the material pooled around his feet. The worn, almost thread bare, blue t-shirt that he favors sleeping in was damp in spots from where he'd accidently splashed himself with water doing the breakfast dishes. His hair was disheveled from sleep and my fingers running through it the previous night. He had that stupid Sherlock-Is-Amusing-Me grin on his face. The sight of him settled in my chest and exploded, like a firecracker of warmth spreading through my body. _

_I'd continued to watch him as he closed the distance between us. He took the test tube out of my fingers and set it back in the rack. He'd placed a kiss at the corner of my lips but pulled way when I tried to turn, when I tried to get more. He ran his fingers through my hair and grabbed tightly, not pulling or hurting, just holding. He'd smiled just a few centimeters from my face. "You're a genius Sherlock. You'll figure it out." He'd released me and walked towards the bathroom. _

I open my eyes and survey the scene around me again. It feels different, or rather I feel different. I have to do this, for John.

I can do anything for John

I've already wasted 39 minutes; I won't waste another second. I take three steps towards the alley and over hear Lestrade's voice along the way.

"What do you mean they've already been sent to my email? You told me 15 seconds ago that it was going to take 48 hours to get the video, and now you are saying that they were sent to me 10 minutes ago. What the fuck is going on over there? Thanks for wasting my time, it's not like someone's life could be counting on this." He's silent for a moment, listening. I say a silent thank you to Mycroft and continue on to the alley.

I take a deep breath and hold it for a minute; pushing every image and feeling I have for John away, not far, but away. There isn't much of me left after.

I focus on the wall, then the ground, then the drag marks. It's obvious what happened. The vehicle in the next alley had to be a van or a truck of some kind. There is no evidence of droplets falling while they tried to push him inside. They were able to toss him inside, quickly. The thought causes a churning in my stomach, but I ignore it.

John put up no fight. He couldn't.

It takes me less than 3 minutes to walk the scene and determine what happened. Knowing makes me want to strangle someone, then shoot them, then drag their dead body behind a car, but at least I know.

My chest tightens.

I close my eyes and force the muscles to relax. I don't manage complete relaxation, but it is better.

I have to focus on the anger and the hatred, they are productive.

I must determine who or where. Even with adrenaline and hatred starting to surge through me, I know that I'll happily sacrifice who to find out where. Where is John?

Where are you John? I close my eyes and try to see him. I have no success.

I exit the alley swallowing down the bile that is rising in my throat, my fists opening and closing. Lestrade is waiting for me, with Harry. I realize suddenly that he's allowing me to take part so that he can keep an eye on me. The thought makes me want to smile, just for a second.

Surely he knows that I will kill whoever did this and if I don't Mycroft will take care of it for me. And if he, won't Harry sure looks like she might. And when John recovers he might have go.

"We've got the video. We can watch it back at the office." I nod, already aware of the sequence of events on the video. But it might give us insight into the responsible parties.

I'm already compiling a list of my enemies who might have gone after John.

Going after John to get to me will be the stupidest thing they've ever done. Going after John, period, was stupid. I'll tear this country down if I have to.

I walk past Lestrade and head towards his police car. He quickly catches up.

"The doctors are happily turning over the names of any unhappy patients who might have been angry with John…"

"That seems like a waste, doesn't it?" I ask, realizing that I sound like myself. "It's much more likely that this is an enemy of mine, or ours."

John appears in my head, leaning against the wall after our first chase together. He'd forgotten his cane. I push him away.

"Someone is trying to get at me. I'm already working on a list of possible suspects; Moriarty is resting comfortably at the top." I pause as we reach the car. "This doesn't seem to fit him though, not calculated enough, too violent and no manipulation."

I climb into the front seat of the vehicle as Lestrade walks around and climbs behind the wheel. "I'm still looking into it though. Harry?" He turns and looks into the back seat. I'm surprised to see Harry there. I hadn't noticed her getting into the vehicle. Apparently, I'm not noticing nearly as much as I think I am. This could be alarming.

It doesn't matter. There isn't an alternative.

"Do you think any of your clients…?"

She shakes her head. "No way." She doesn't look at me. "I'm in corporate law, but not any of the exciting things. I verify wording and guarantees, some sexual harassment on occasion, but not in a long time. Nothing people seek revenge over and if they did it wouldn't be like this."

She's confident. I don't doubt her. If there was someone she was unsure of she'd have happily volunteered them. It is a dead end. Lestrade nods and turns back around, starting the car.

"Okay," he says. I keep my eyes on Harry. She meets them after another long few seconds and stares at me. She looks so much like John in that moment that my breath catches. I have to look away. She is frightened and isn't bothering to hide it.

John is probably frightened too.

I stare out the window as the streets of London start to pass by. I continue to formulate my list, adding the German man who wanted us to investigate his missing art work. It took me about 10 seconds to determine he'd stolen them himself for insurance purpose. He'd been furious, I doubt furious enough to do this, but furious none the less.

Lestrade's phone rings, I look over at him as he picks it up. I can make out Donovan's voice over the line. I can't hear every word, but am able to put together the bits and pieces.

The officers searching the street found a bag a few blocks over with bloody clothes inside. The bag also contained a work ID and the wallet of Dr. John Watson, of 221b Baker St.

A pile of bloody clothes, I sit back in my seat.

That image isn't going anywhere.


	4. Boxes

A/N – To Billy and Annabella, neither of whom will ever read this, for finally leaving my house. And to everyone who waited so patiently. I hope it was worth it.

Sherlock

Anderson brought the box in.

Lestrade is printing out images of the men from the video. Harry is in the loo, vomiting. She didn't handle the sight of John hitting the wall very well.

I am sitting in a chair, watching the pieces fly around in my head. Moriarty, it has to be Moriarty. Why like this? It doesn't make sense. It doesn't fit. Who else? Who else?

Anderson sets the box in front of me. I stare at it.

Lestrade stops typing. He's looking at me. I don't have to look up to know this. It's obvious. He starts again. He's going to finish and then leave me alone.

Alone with the box.

Alone with the box of John.

"I've sent the picture to Donovan, she'll ask the staff of the clinic if they recognize the men." He stops next to me and looks at the box. "I'll…um…give you a few minutes." He goes away.

It's a typical file box, nothing unusual or special about it. It is white with black markings allowing for dates, information on contents, and names. There is no writing on the box, yet. I wonder what they will put on it.

I reach out and trace my fingers along the lid. The cardboard is smooth on all the surfaces, but rougher at the edges where the folds are. It smells like cardboard, that not quite wood, not quite paper odor that reminds me of packages and Christmas. And after today, probably this moment.

I bring up my other hand and push my fingers under the lid. I take a deep breath and lift it.

John's shirt is on top.

It's the green and white checkered shirt that he bought about a year ago. It'd been on sale and he needed a new work shirt. It is carefully folded, but the day's events are obvious in its wear.

I am, or rather had been, indifferent to this shirt. I don't love it like the blue one that makes his eyes shine or his jumpers. I love his jumpers. I also have never hated it like I hate…no hate is the wrong word. I don't hate anything that John loves. I don't like his football t-shirts or his general "lounge around t-shirts" as he refers to them. They have silly slogans or advertisements. I don't like the idea of John as a billboard, even though some of them are humorous.

This shirt had never earned an opinion before today.

But now, I hate it. I hate it and want to cover it in petrol and throw a match on it. I want it to burn away to nothing and have the ashes disperse in the wind.

I breathe.

I examine it. There are spatters of blood on the collar from the initial hit against the wall. He'd been wearing his jacket, so most of the shirt was covered, and spared from the spatter.

I gingerly reach my hands in and pull it out of the box. I hold it up by the shoulders, letting it hang loose in front of me.

There is more blood along the back of one shoulder. He landed on his back when he hit the ground, the blood travelled that way, down his neck and on to the shirt. It is ripped along the right side and there is blood around the tear, not much. It isn't a smooth tear, like a knife or razor would have caused. It must have caught on something.

The tail of the shirt is soaked with blood; it is still tacky to the touch. His shirt must have come untucked as they dragged him. The wear pattern and blood stain along the hem seem to verify this. I'd imagine the stain will also be on the seat of his trousers and the back of his jacket.

There are several buttons missing, whoever it was didn't _take_ the shirt off of him. They _ripped_ it off of him. My hands clench on the material and I have to force them to relax.

My chest hurts. I gulp in a breath and I feel like I breathed in fire, my throat and my lungs burn.

I bring the shirt up and bury my nose in the collar. I close my eyes and breathe again. It smells like John, just like he smelled this morning.

I'd rolled over and buried my face into his neck at the sound of the alarm. After years in the military he is almost always awake just before the alarm. This morning was no different. He'd turned it off quickly and settled back into the pillow. I kissed just below his ear and he let out a pleased hum. "Don't go to work today." I ask of him, just as I ask every morning.

He'd smiled, just like he does every morning, and insisted that he had to go in. His patients needed him.

I need him more. There are other doctors. There is only one of my John.

All scents are based on particles. I can feel little bits of John entering my lungs and surging through my body. I breathe in and my throat burns, again.

I count to 20. That's all I get.

I fold the shirt neatly and set it aside.

His trousers are next; they are just standard John khaki trousers. He almost buys them in bulk. I have never bothered to differentiate between them, like I have done with his jeans, dress trousers, sweats and pyjama bottoms. These are for his work and therefore separate from me. I fold them, quickly confirming the blood stain and tears from being dragged and set them aside.

His jacket is next.

The black one he wears frequently. The black one he wore, not at our first meeting, but when he first came to Baker St. The first time he ever stepped into what would become our home, he was wearing this jacket.

It is not the most flattering, or the most stylish. But it is so John, such a constant element in my pictures of him. So fundamental. I love this jacket, love it. I will have to replace it for him. I note the maker on the tag. It is not an expensive brand. Perhaps I will buy him an expensive one. He'll cherish it.

It's ruined, shredded in the back from bearing the brunt of the dragging. And there is so much blood that it makes the matte fabric shine in places. It is still damp, no longer warm but cool to the touch as the blood has dried.

I squeeze the fabric of the sleeves between my fingers. The feeling is familiar, welcome. I've touched John's arm countless times, feeling this fabric under my touch. I've felt it pressed against me as my freshly showered body pressed against John, just home from work.

I grab either end of the collar and hold it up to my nose, the smell of John is strong here, overwhelming. This isn't cleaned as often as the shirt.

I take a deep breath and hold it.

I count to 30.

_Running through the London streets after a cab, after a madman. Looking up and realizing that it was him, he'd shot the cab driver. _

I take another breath and count to 30 again.

_Walking out of the flat after a fight. Walking back in the next morning after the explosion. Sitting with me days later laughing about the weird hairless cat. Laughing. _

Then once more, and I drag the count out to 45 this time, my lungs desperate for new oxygen.

_Leaning over after a different chase, walking up to me, touching me. Sitting across the floor from me, kissing me, guiding me. Kneeling between my legs, touching me again, lightly, slowly, tracing, dancing his fingers across me, showing me there was nothing to fear. Showing me he'd never hurt me. Loving me. Loving me so much. _

I yank it away from my face, a wet gasp escaping my lips. My cheeks are damp, but I can't make myself care. I can't make myself be horrified at the weakness.

The jacket is too small for me to put on properly, but I can hold it in front of me and slip my arms into the sleeves. I do so, feeling the tightness of the material against my arms. My arms are where John's arms were, feeling what he felt. Wearing what he wore.

I yearn to bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my body around this smell. It isn't possible though, the chair too small to accommodate the position. I settle for bringing the collar back to my nose and bunching as much of the jacket together as I can.

I breathe in. I count. 1…2…3…4…5

I shift and something heavy hits my side. I ignore the sensation for a moment before I pull back and look towards the pocket. There is something in the pocket.

I fumble to reach it, unwilling to take my arms out of the sleeves.

It takes a minute but I manage to close my fingers around what feels like a box. I pull it out and look at it.

I stop breathing. My diaphragm relaxes and the air eases out of my lungs in a slow hiss, but it doesn't contract again. Instead it stills and I take in no new air.

I stare at it. It's a box, a jewelry box. I recognize the emblem as belonging to a store in Chelsea. Oddly, I wonder why he went to Chelsea. Could he not find anything closer?

I gasp in a breath as if I'd been drowning.

I know what's inside.

A jewelry box. A jewelry box in his pocket on the day we were celebrating our anniversary.

I am…I am…surprised. I hadn't been expecting this. I hoped soon, maybe, the not too distant future. But not tonight, I never expected tonight.

I run my fingers over it. The box is covered with very fine leather, excellent quality. Expensive, not that it matters in the slightest, but a high quality box hints at a high quality jeweler.

I trace my fingers along the smooth leather, feeling the valley where the emblem has been branded. It is silver in color and I wonder if that denotes the color of the metal inside.

I don't open it.

I bring it up to my nose and smell it.

It smells like leather and what I assume is the store. It feels smooth as it brushes my lips.

I don't open it.

I imagine John holding it. I imagine John going into a store, shopping. Did he pull on the sleeves of his shirt, one of his nervous habits, debating the pros and cons of multiple selections? Did he see one and know instantly that it was the one he wanted? What factors did he consider when picking them? Color? Durability? Are they exactly the same, showing we are united? Or do they complement each other, like we complement each other?

I don't open it. My hand is shaking. I don't open it. I am shaking.

How was…

"He was terrified." A voice interrupts my thought. It's Harry.

I look up and she has a sad smile on her face. She isn't looking at me, but at the box in my hand. She continues. "He told me at lunch today that he was going to ask you." She frowns. "He was so nervous and he asked me for advice. Me, that's laughable right?" She isn't laughing.

I look back to the box in my shaking hand. My grip on it tightens.

Nervous? Why? Surely he knew I'd say yes. Of course I'd say yes. I will say yes, soon. If not, I'll ask him and he can say yes. It doesn't matter. There will be a question and there will be a yes. There has to be.

"They're beautiful." She says getting my attention again. She looks vacant, lost in memory.

I don't open it. I can't.

"I…" I clear my throat. "I haven't…" I pause staring at the box. "I haven't opened it."

She frowns, her eyes moving up to meet mine for the first time since she walked into the office. She looks sad, like John does sometimes when he thinks about the war or the people he lost, when he remembers.

I hate when John looks like that.

I hate that Harry is looking like it now. John is not lost, his whereabouts is just unknown.

She walks forward, and my hand seizes around the box so that one of the corners is stabbing into my palm. I will not let it go.

She doesn't reach for it.

Instead, she runs her fingers along my arm, along the jacket. I realize suddenly that I must look ridiculous. I have a coat that is too small, on backwards, with my arms through the sleeves only as far as they will go.

Harry doesn't seem to notice that it is ridiculous. She just traces the material, fingers barely brushing over it.

She smiles the sad smile again. I don't like it much either.

I want to pull away. I don't want her to touch me. I don't want her touching John's jacket with that smile on her face.

Lestrade charges into the room, door bouncing against the wall as he forces his way through it.

He looks between us quickly, eyes aflame.

I jolt upright, shooting to my feet. Harry jumps back, startled. I understand the look. I understand Lestrade.

My breathing is too fast, too rushed. I can't control it, I don't want to. My heart is pounding, in my chest. It's is pounding in my ear. I'm certain the whole room can hear it.

I start trying to fumble out of the jacket, trying to force it off my arms without loosening my grip on the box.

Harry is looking at me alarmed, but she will know as soon as Lestrade speaks. I have to get out of the jacket. She grabs the collar, stabilizing it, allowing me to begin to extract myself.

"University College Hospital. A white van was abandoned in their ambulance entrance. When they went to examine it they found John in the back. He's in surgery."

Harry gives the jacket a final pull and my arms are free. I walk past her and past Lestrade. I don't look back to see if they are following. It doesn't matter.

I have to get to John.

I feel the corner of the box puncture through my palm and the warm sensation of my own blood coming to the surface. It hurts, but it is irrelevant.

I have to get to John. Now.


	5. Harry

Harriet

There are 64 square shaped tiles on the floor of the waiting room. Sixty-four tiles alternating bland-colored-taupe and blend-into-the-wall-beige. I've counted them a dozen times already.

There are 36 tiles in the paneled ceiling, not counting the ones that are cut in half along one wall. That would bring the total of whole tiles to 39. I've counted those probably a hundred times.

I've already skimmed through the seven magazines on the table, the newest being 3 years old. A Hollywood couple is on the cover of that one. It's a story about their young love. They have since married, had a child, and divorced.

There are 4 fake plants in the room, 2 fichus trees and 2 ferns. There are pamphlets about everything from breast health to prostate cancer, diabetes to food poisoning. I've read all of those too. And rest assured I now truly appreciate the importance of washing my hands, there are 5 signs on this subject lining the walls.

There are 17 regular chairs and 3 benches with double seats. There are 2 people. Sherlock Holmes and Harriet Watson. Him and me.

Sometimes a third, his brother Mycroft, will pop in. He introduced himself to me with a little bow and a flimsy handshake. He's brought us each a sandwich, twice, and coffee about every two hours. I don't exactly know what he is doing when he isn't in this room for 45 seconds at a time, but there seems to be some understanding between him and Sherlock. I don't press. I don't really want to know.

I haven't counted the number of words that have passed between Sherlock and me in the 6 hours we've been sitting here, but it can't be more than 50. Neither of us has too much to say. The operating suite, 2 floors down and is clearly on both of our minds.

No news is good news, I keep telling myself. If they aren't here telling us that he's dead then he's still putting up a fight. He's the most stubborn person I've ever known. He won't give up easily.

I glance over at Sherlock. He's across from me on one of the other benches. He's lying on his back, eyes plastered on the ceiling. He's been like that for 2 hours.

The jewelry box is resting on his chest completely covered, completely protected by his right hand. He won't let go of it.

He was dripping blood from his hand when we got here. He'd been demanding to see John, not wanting to hear that he was still in surgery and would be for hours.

"He needs to know that I am here." He'd said it over and over until one of the doctors promised that he'd deliver the message. Sherlock had examined the man quickly, looking him up and down and nodded. I assumed he was verifying that the man was telling the truth. That he would deliver the message.

Satisfied, he'd demanded directions to the waiting room. One of the nurses noticed the wound then, the blood dripping to the floor. She'd touched his wrist, trying to get a look. He'd shot back like lightning, cradling the box against his chest using the other hand to push her away. She'd almost fallen backwards. He'd stared at her with disgust before heading towards the waiting room, this room, our home for the last 6 hours.

I'd quickly apologized to the nurse and asked for some bandages. She'd happily provided them, seeming to sympathize with Sherlock.

He was sitting in the chair when I walked into the room, already lost in thought again. I stood directly in front of him, closer than social boundaries would find acceptable, until he looked up at me. He was frowning; annoyed I'd interrupted his thoughts.

"I need you to put the box in your other hand Sherlock. I'm going to bandage your wound." His brow had furrowed in confusion before he looked down at his hand. He appeared to suddenly remember the wound and shook his head.

"It's fine." He'd snapped. I didn't move.

"You aren't going to be able to see John if you get MRSA in that wound." He glared, as if daring me to keep him away from John, but nodded. He transferred the box to his left hand and held it away from me. I didn't look at it. I just opened the disinfecting wipe and started to clean him up. Then I used the ointment, the gauze, and the tape. I worked quickly, but made sure to do a good job. I also made sure to never look at the box. He kept his eyes on me the whole time, watching me and my movements.

"Thank you." He spat as I started putting all the trash into a little bag the nurse had given me.

I just nodded at him, opening another disinfecting wipe and handing it to him. He looked confused again.

"There's blood on the box." I said. "I thought you might want to clean it." He held the box up for inspection, noticed the stains and snatched the wipe. He handed it to me when he was done, putting the box back in his right hand and just holding it.

It's been in that hand ever since. When Mycroft spotted it his eyebrow shot up, but he said nothing.

Nobody has said anything.

We are just waiting.

I decide to lay down myself. I spread out on the bench and begin to count the ceiling tiles, again.

After a moment I ask a question that had been bouncing around in the back of my head. "What was your surprise for him?"

He turns his head and I look across at him. "John said that you were going out to dinner and had a surprise for him. Can I ask what it was?"

He looks back at the ceiling. "You have already asked there is no need to seek permission to do so." He is quiet. I assume that I'm not getting an answer and start to count again.

After several minutes he speaks. "I bought tickets to the football match at Wimbley. He enjoys football, but watches it very little because I am indifferent. It was apparently a fairly important match, he would have enjoyed attending."

There is another pause. "I also cleaned the flat."

I release a quick breath. "He will appreciate that." I say. "He would have liked going to the football as well."

He holds the box up. "My plans seem inadequate in comparison."

I smile, a real one. I turn back to the ceiling. "They weren't inadequate." I state simply. "He would have loved your plans."

I feel him look at me but don't look back. "You do know that know he's going to make you attend a football match when he's better though, to make up for missing the one tonight."

He sighs. "It had occurred to me yes. It is generally an unpleasant idea. However, given the events of the day, I think that I will happily condescend to go."

I cover my eyes with my hand and the laugh bubbles out of me. I can't help myself. It feels out of place, yet so good. I notice that Sherlock is chuckling too. It is an amazing relief from the tension and appropriately timed as the door to the waiting room opens and a doctor walks in.

The laughter stops immediately, and we both sit up, and then stand.

The doctor is tall, like Sherlock but very muscular. He has an expression on his face that I can't read.

"Are you Mr. Holmes and Ms. Watson?" He asks. I'm nodding my head, just about to verbally confirm this when Sherlock collapses back onto the bench. He is sitting, knees on elbows, face buried in his hands. The box held precariously between index finger and thumb next to one temple. Both the doctor and I turn to look at him, taken aback. He lets out a long gasping breath and looks up at me.

He meets my eyes. There is a smile there, relief. I understand suddenly that he has read the doctor. He knows what is going to be said. He knows that John is alive.

John is alive.

A weight is lifted off my chest and I let out a long breath as well. I turn back to the doctor who looks confused, not understanding the quick interaction between us. Not understanding why we aren't waiting on the edge or our seats for what he has to say.

"When can we see him?" I ask.


	6. Cowardice

A/N – Ok, I had to get this in here somewhere or the end of the story won't make sense. So here it is. John is in the next chapter, kind of. I promise.

Lestrade

I am exhausted, probably as exhausted as I have ever been. That is saying something after 20 years as a cop. I've been awake for around 40 hours, between the regular schedule I worked yesterday and then taking on John's case. It has been a long day or days, thankfully it is almost over.

I find Sherlock in the waiting room. He's fidgeting and looking annoyed. Harry, however, is asleep curled up in a chair. Her quiet snores are filling the room. I'm jealous.

"How is he?" I ask sitting down across from Sherlock. I toss my coat in the chair next to me and sit the file on top of it. Sherlock looks towards the file, squirming some more, then looks at me.

"Alive." He says. "Or he was when they made us leave the room. I require nothing from the nursing staff, I see no reason I should have to leave during shift change. It's just stupid."

"I'm surprised you agreed to leave."

He huffs, "Security, with the help of my brother, made me. There are some stupid rules about recovery patients and intensive care. They have guaranteed that it will not be more than an hour and that it will not happen when he is in his own room."

I smile. "Your brother is an interesting character. Glad he's on our side, I haven't had to wait for anything during this whole process."

Sherlock huffs again, but looks pleased.

"Tell me about John." He looks at the floor. He reaches into his pocket absentmindedly and pulls out the small box. I realize he must have found it in John's clothes. I'll ignore that and the fact that it is technically evidence.

"It would be easier if I listed the parts of him that are undamaged." He sighs, but stops fidgeting and starts listing. "Severe concussion and brain swelling, cracked skull, broken nose, broken collar bone, dislocated shoulder, broken sternum, broken ribs, punctured lung, bruised liver, punctured kidney, ruptured spleen, perforated bowel."

He meets my eyes. "They removed his spleen, appendix, and gall bladder, and a few feet of intestine. They've repaired the lung and kidney and intestines, wrapped his ribs. The fear of infection is great because of the perforated bowel and because of the surgery so he's on an intensive round of antibiotics. They are keeping him in a coma for at least 24 hours because of the swelling in the brain and he is on a ventilator." He looks at the small box. "They didn't think he'd survive the surgery, but he did." He looks back up. "He is alive." There is a forceful tone behind his last statement; it is more for his benefit than mine.

I open my mouth to speak, but he interrupts me. "What have you found?" He gestures towards the folder, hatred flaring across his features. "I know that Mycroft is searching through Moriarty's known connections, along with the other names I gave… "

"This had nothing to do with Moriarty or with you for that matter." I say. Disbelief crosses his features, followed by the look I get when he thinks I'm an idiot.

"Lestrade," he shifts in the seat, ready to argue with me, annoyed that he has to.

"If you don't believe me, check with your brother. He sent me a text message verifying that there is no known or identifiable connection." I grab the file and hand it to him.

"Gareth Hamilton." He opens it. "We arrested him 20 minutes ago. He was confessing before we got him in the car. Trust me; this isn't the type of guy a master criminal does business with. This is an idiot who stole a van from his employer, grabbed his buddy, and attacked a man from behind." I watch as Sherlock looks over the first page. It's Hamilton's picture and the highlights of his criminal history.

He turns the page and sees the beginnings of the other pictures. He straightens in surprise.

"That's Hannah, his daughter. She is 5. She and her mother Elizabeth are patients at John's clinic." Sherlock turns to the next picture, a look of distaste crosses his face. They only get worse. "Two weeks ago, Elizabeth brought Hannah to the clinic because she thought her arm was broken. The receptionist tried to send her to emergency, but John agreed to see her. He x-rayed the arm and was able to tell it was an abuse break." Sherlock looked to the next one and frowned. I saw movement, slight movement, out of the corner of my eye and looked towards Harry. She hadn't changed her position, but was looking at us, following the conversation.

"He called in one of the female doctors and called the authorities." I gestured towards the photo. "These were taken."

Sherlock closes the file and tosses it back at me, disgusted. "Elizabeth let the WPC set her up with the battered woman's shelter the clinic refers people to and they started to build a case against Gareth. He came to the clinic 5 days ago demanding to know where his wife was, John was the one he spoke with. The receptionist recognized his picture when Donovan showed them around."

Sherlock snarled at the folder in my hand.

"The man beats his wife and daughter and then attacks John because he helped them." It's Harry and we both turn to look at her.

I nod. "He refused to give Hamilton the information on the shelter and apparently had a few choice words for him about how he treated his family. Mr. Hamilton, being a coward, ultimately, as most abusers are, left but came back with his co-worker to take action. We've arrested the other guy a well, Ed Jones. He is having no problem pushing the blame on to Hamilton."

Sherlock huffs. "Typical John." He buries his face in his hands again. Harry straightens.

"Did he mention this to you, having a problem with this man?" She asks Sherlock.

He shakes his head but doesn't look up. "No, he doesn't talk about patients or cases. He takes his oath very seriously."

He says it with a hint of distaste. Harry chuckles and leans her head back.

"Some asshole wife beater tried to beat my brother to death because he wouldn't tell him where his wife was?" She chuckles again. "Stupid fucking idiot. I don't know whether to be pissed or proud."

I watch her for a moment. I watch tears form in her eyes and her bottom lip quiver. I feel a moment of panic about her starting to cry, but she takes a deep breath and gets it under control.

"I can't believe it." Sherlock says. We both turn to look at him. "I make enemies every day. And John is almost killed because he is John, because he did the right thing. Perhaps he will be less hesitant in the future when I wish to work outside the rules. I have never been almost beaten to death because of it. This upstanding citizen charade seems to be getting him very little."

Harry laughs, then sighs

I open my mouth to argue, but a nurse walks into the room.

"You can go back now Mr. Holmes, Ms. Watson." They both stand and are heading towards the door without acknowledging me. Harry stops though, and turns back. Sherlock keeps going.

"Thank you," she says holding out her hand. "You said he confessed right?"

I shake her hand and nod. "He claims he just wants his daughter back."

"Are they safe, the wife and daughter?"

I nod again. "Yes, he hasn't been able to find them. I understand that she has intentions of moving back up North, her parents are there."

"Good." She looks determined. "John would probably think it was worth it then. I don't know that I agree, but…" She trails off and looks towards the door.

"I'll say a prayer for him. We all will. He's a great man." I say. She doesn't look back at me, but nods. I can see the tears again. She takes a deep breath and without saying anything else, she leaves.


	7. Waiting

Sherlock

John still isn't awake, but none of the doctors feel that is a bad thing. In fact they are giving him sedatives to help keep him that way. They keep offering me worthless platitudes about him needing his rest and his reactions to stimuli. _He is no longer in a coma Mr. Holmes, he's just basically asleep. See he's making noise._ As if I wasn't aware of every single noise that John has made since he's been here. The doctors are of no comfort. I've stopped speaking to them, letting Harry relay all the pertinent information to me. My attention is better spent focusing on John.

I was able to notice, almost immediately, the subtle changes in his temperature three days ago. Antibiotics were increased and something that could have been catastrophic was basically avoided. I've since added temperature to the list of things I monitor hourly, along with blood pressure, O2 saturation, and heart rate. Everything, outside of the temperature fluctuation, has been constant since they took him off the ventilator 4 days ago. I do find some comfort in this consistency.

The swelling is going down on his face. I probably wouldn't have noticed had Mycroft not pointed it out last evening. I focus very little on his physical appearance; his life is my only concern. I understand that others appreciate being able to recognize him, seeing John underneath the bruises. I can appreciate it as well, the brow ridge, the cheek bones, the nose, all recognizable again. I do not need it though. The bruises show his body's reaction, the swelling is protection, all signs that he is alive and fighting. Therefore, I will embrace them.

I glance at the clock, 8:07 am. Harry will be here shortly. She keeps a regular schedule, for my benefit more than hers. She'll bring me food, simple things that I can consume through the course of the day. She understands that the hospital food is repulsive. Most importantly coffee, she always brings me fresh coffee.

I have developed surprising affection for Harry during this ordeal. She is a constant reminder of John, from her laugh to her smell. She smells very similar to John, just slightly sweeter. She is also the only person who has never once suggested that I leave. She knows that I will not. Instead she is accommodating me.

I stand and stretch my back; I've been sitting too long. I've tried to alternate sitting and standing at regular intervals in an attempt to avoid as much discomfort to myself as possible. Especially, since I refuse to sleep in the cot they brought for me. I will sleep too deeply if I lie down, I could miss something.

I bend over and place a light kiss on his temple. "Harry will be here soon. She'll update us on what your doctors are saying. They really are imbeciles Dr. Watson and I've come to believe you are the only smart one in all of the U.K."

I hear the door open and close behind me and don't have to look to know that Harry has arrived.

"Morning, she says. My insides tingle at the smell of the coffee. I squeeze John's fingers, a gesture that I use to inform him that I am about to let go, but that I am not going far. I have faith that he understands this.

"Good Morning," I reply and turn to see Harry with several bags more than usually. I quirk an eyebrow at her and she smiles up at me.

"I've brought you food, soup, some biscuits, and fruit." She sets that on the edge of the sink that takes up one corner of the room.

"I took your laundry home and washed it and stopped by your flat and picked you up a few more things. I also brought some things for John when he starts his recovery. I know he'll prefer his own clothing." Another thing that endears Harry to me is that she never says 'if', only 'when'. She has no doubts that John will make a complete recovery.

She sets a larger canvas bag to the side, clearly that holds the clothing. She holds a Boots bag up for me to see. "I've also bought you regular size toiletries. The travel size one's aren't going to cut it." She sets that down on top of the clothing bag and adds her purse to the mix.

"And your coffee." She holds it out to me and closes the distance between us with three steps.

I take it gratefully and enjoy a long sip. Harry smiles as she walks around me and to the side of the bed that I've labeled as hers. She has her own chair and own system for interacting with John. It's rather interesting that such a pattern was so easily established in just 6 days.

I grab an apple out of the food bag and retake my seat. Some days she looks a great deal like John, like today. Other days the eye color would be the only clue that they share DNA. It is an amazing phenomenon that I would give more attention to if circumstances were different. Perhaps in the future.

She takes his hand and offers him a quick hello. She always speaks directly to John, she is the only one, other than myself, who does this. I have to remind Mrs. Hudson every time the John, is indeed, here.

"I spoke to the Doctor." She turns to me now, including both of us in the conversation. "They have started lowering the level of sedatives and pain killers they are giving you. Dr. O'Malley _(idiot # 2, I mentally insert) _believes it's time that you wake up completely."

For some reason this makes my stomach churn, nervous. It is exactly what I was hoping for less than 3 minutes ago, should I not be excited? I set the apple aside, done with it. She smiles at this. "You are going to be so angry when you realize just how little Sherlock is eating while sitting here. I try and make him, but he doesn't listen."

I sigh and pick up the apple. She smiles again; the same one John gives me when he wins.

"I was sitting at home last night and started to think about the time we ran away from home. Do you remember that John?" I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Harry does this every day, recounting a memory from their childhood. I've come to treasure them, which I'm sure is one of the reasons Harry continues to do it. It is part of the outside world coming into the room, but also a window into this man who I never get tired of learning about. I have unrealistic expectations of knowing everything there is to know about him, every last detail and memory and feeling. It is impossible to have too much information about John.

"I think you were five, maybe six. Mummy wouldn't let us watch Scooby Doo until we'd picked up our toys. I was so angry I declared I was running away and you stood up to announce that you were coming with me. We packed up my school bag with toys and crisps and headed out."

I can picture it clearly, a small blonde John walking determinedly down the street behind his sister. I've seen pictures of him when he was small. He was adorable and eager even then. He would furrow his little brow, standing loyally with the older sister he admired. I have an urge to reach out to that small boy and run my fingers across that brow, relaxing the tension.

Harry continues. "We hid behind Ms. Woodson's, bushes. It felt like we sat there forever, you were so angry." Little John arms crossed, sulking, which he claims he doesn't do. I wish I'd known him then. He would have been my friend.

"Remember Dad standing over us, pretending to be worried. They probably watched us from the kitchen window the whole time." I chuckle at this. Our upbringings could not have been more different. Mine was rich in culture and intellectual stimulation, I loved it. But stories from John's youth always have a charm and tenderness that mine seems to lack.

I take the image I've created of John and tuck it gently away into the vast part of my brain dedicated to him. I open my eyes, no longer listening to Harry's words. I look at the machines, noting that all of John's vitals are consistent with an hour ago. The doctors should be coming in for rounds within the next 10 minutes and Mycroft will make his morning appearance not long after that. I sigh, and stand again.

"Can you stay while I shower?" I toss my apple core and coffee cup into the bin.

"Of course," she answers.


	8. Rise and Shine

A/N – ScopesMonkey, I raise my Abita Purple Haze to you, get your glass of wine ready.

Sherlock

I have developed a new appreciation for cleaning my teeth and showering. It is amazing how much better, how much more like myself, I feel after my daily bathing routine.

Harry brought me some more freshly laundered clothes this morning. The scent of my flat has left them and now they smell like her flat. It has become a very familiar scent over the last nine days. It surprises me that I am not annoyed by this. Instead, I feel grateful. She is doing everything in her power to accommodate me and ensure that I don't have to leave the hospital. She, like Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, want me to leave, want me to go home for just a few hours. However, unlike Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, she isn't insisting on anything.

"You are an adult Sherlock. I won't try to make you do anything. It would be beneficial to you, but you are more than capable of making up your own mind. I only ask that you eat and shower." This attitude has ensured that she is the only one I am pleasant too at this point. It also ensures that I eat and shower on a regular basis.

I am aware that she has adopted her attitude so that I don't push her away. I can't make her leave the hospital. She is technically John's next of kin and the ultimate decision maker. But she also loves him, and he her. I would never try to prevent them from interacting. I could, however, not interact with her or be unpleasant and unwelcoming. I will not though, she is humoring me. She doesn't want me to be alone here.

Her plan to be my companion is working. She is the only one I trust to stay with John while I shower. And yesterday, I left her while I went to purchase a cup of tea. It was the first time I'd left the room since they moved John to it, but I wanted to venture out. I wanted to breathe air other than this air.

The machine is one floor down. The walk to the machine was enjoyable. It was stimulating to see new faces. However, on the way back I am fairly certain I was in the beginning stages of a panic attack. My breathing was too fast and my heart was pounding. I had an irrational fear that he wouldn't be in the room when I returned. He was though, and I was greeted with a pleasant, smiling Harry and a mumbling John. It was exactly the same as when I left.

In the three days since they started lowering his medications levels, John has become very vocal, even mobile at some points. He has opened his eyes on several occasions, but there has been no awareness behind them. He is still being hampered by the medications. I am anxious though, there seems to be a new improvement every day now. I feel that the end is in sight and that he will be awake soon.

I oscillate between anxiousness about this to ecstatic at the prospect. His physical appearance has improved drastically over the last few days. The swelling reveals John now, not just some of his features. His heart rate and blood pressure are stronger and no longer require hourly monitoring. He is moving step by step down the road of healing. I am confident that he will make a complete physical recovery.

My concern revolves around the head wound. There is still a very serious concussion and while the brain swelling has gone down there could have been damage done. What if he has physical manifestations of that damage? What if he can't see? I am almost certain that he can hear because when I speak to him, sometimes he will react. But he is a man who developed a limp from a shoulder injury, there could be other manifestations. What if he has memory loss? What if he doesn't remember? What if he doesn't know me?

I am also concerned with his after care. I've done research into the physical therapy that he will require. It is extensive, complicated, and long term. There are changes that might be required to the flat to help his mobility. I've even hired a cleaning service to sterilize it weekly as his spleen has been removed and he will be more susceptible to illness. I will have to consider moving my experiments to the spare bedroom, or perhaps even renting a secondary location. It is vital that John stay healthy in the future.

I take a deep breath and put the toothbrush in my mouth. That is all still fairly far off though, his recovery will begin in the hospital.

"SHERLOCK!" Harry's voice comes to me through the door, just as her hand bangs on it, open palmed and hard. "Get out here." Her voice fades slightly as she moves away from the door.

I pause and panic seizes my chest. I grip the toothbrush tightly for a moment before it drops to the floor. I am hit with a very clear image of flat lining machines and John with the coloring of death in his cheeks. I try and push the irrational image away, but bile fills the back of my throat as I open the door and step into the room.

I have yet to put my shoes on and the tiles are cold against my feet. I barely notice though, as there are alert hazel eyes staring up at me from the bed. They are pained and tired but recognition flashes across them and panic leaves me in a series of waves. My heart starts to pound and I feel lightheaded. He tries to move, to shift on the bed, and anguish crosses his features. I start to move towards him, only realizing as I take the first step that I had actually stopped walking when I saw him. I close the distance between us in 4 strides and his eyes stay on me the whole time.

Harry is standing next to the bed, she has a hand covering her mouth and tears are silently streaming down her cheeks. I vaguely note that it is the first time I have actually seen her cry during this whole ordeal. She's done it; I've seen the after effects but never the actual tears. They surprise me. I also notice the flashing light blinking next to John's bed. Harry has hit the call button; we will have a nurse soon.

I sit in my seat because if I don't I'll collapse. I grab his hand and squeeze his fingers. I receive a weak, but determined squeeze in response. I'm fairly certain that this is the happiest moment of my life. Absolute joy is surging through my body.

He starts opening and closing his mouth, clearly thirsty. I grab an ice chip from the cup. We've been giving him a few over the last two days. I press it against his lips and he closes his eyes welcoming it. His tongue darts out to touch it, to taste. My throat tightens at the sight.

He opens his eyes and looks me over. He struggles for a minute, trying to form words, mouth moving slowly open and closed. "Too…th…paste," he struggles to get out. I am confused for only a second. I bring my hand to my mouth and wipe it away, then wipe my hand along my pants.

"Irrelevant." I reply, feeling euphoric. "You're being awake is the only concern that I have."

He begins to process this. My beautiful John is here. I watch as he turns his gaze inward; trying to remember, trying to pick up the pieces, solve the problem. The haze of injury and medication is making it difficult for him.

Harry collapses into her chair and John looks towards her. His confusion grows. He is surprised to see her.

"Don't worry." I say, drawing his attention fully on me again. "I will answer every question you have later. I promise. I will tell you that you were hurt and you are in hospital and you are healing nicely. Do you understand?"

He tries to nod, but clearly it hurts. "Don't move too much." I offer, although he should probably have figured that out on his own. His eyes meet mine and I know that he has understood all that I have said.

He starts to struggle again, eyes closing, face contorting. He's trying to form more words, trying to get it out. I'm about to tell him to stop when he finally succeeds. His eyes open as he says.

"You? Ok?" He closes his eyes after the effort. I almost laugh out loud. Typical of John to be concerned with others before himself. Harry chuckles across the bed from me, finding it amusing for the same reason.

I stand and lean over him. I am certain that there is a huge grin on my face. "I am significantly better than I was 2 minutes ago, wonderful even." I absolutely must kiss him. Must. His eyes flutter closed as I move closer and I rest my lips gently against his. They are chapped and barely move against mine, but it is recognizably John. Beautiful and familiar and warm John.

The door opens and both Harry and I look up to see Idiot Doctor # 4 walking into the room. She is the least offensive of the idiot doctors, but I am still not thrilled to see her. She greets Harry warmly and even musters a smile for me, before turning her attention to John.

She smiles down at him, it is genuine. "Well, hello Dr. Watson. It's nice to finally meet you."


	9. My Beatrice

Warning- Romantic sappiness to follow, you have been warned.

John

I blink awake and have to suppress my body's urge to stretch. I failed to do so two days ago and ended up in tears. Sherlock had been in the bathroom, just out of the shower. He charged in wearing just his boxers to see what was wrong. The nurse was coming in to check my vitals at the same moment. He was only concerned with me, and she didn't bother to hide her appreciation for him. It was awkward and hilarious and I caused myself more pain by chuckling about it. I'd like to avoid that again.

Sherlock isn't in the shower today though, he's asleep. Still. I managed to convince him at lunch yesterday to take a nap. He hadn't slept more than an hour at a time in the 5 days I'd been awake. He'd been concerned about missing something. I've had visits from the physical therapists, the respiratory therapists, neurologist, and osteopaths. Sherlock has been here for everyone. He's learned how to use every piece of equipment that has come through that door.

He can give me a sponge bath, which he does now instead of letting the nurses do it. "I didn't like the way they were looking at you." He was serious, but I doubt the nurses were actually enjoying it. I'm not the only bath they'd be giving and my body has certainly seen better days. Not that I mind Sherlock doing it. He is cautious in ways that the nurses might not be. His touch, which is always welcome and familiar, is now careful and sure. He studies each incision and bruise carefully, memorizing their healing pattern. He also can change my dressings, insisting he needed to know that for when I go home. I let him learn.

I got my bath and bandage change at lunch time yesterday. Sherlock had dutifully performed his chores and sat down in his chair. He took my hand and smiled at me, looking exhausted. I was feeling pretty exhausted myself. I'd managed to stay awake the whole time he worked, it was the first time I managed it.

I squeezed his fingers and returned his smile. I was uncomfortable and my head hurt, but I had to ask him before I slept. "Do me a favor?"

"Anything," he'd said.

"Pull the cot over and get some sleep. I'm trying to recover here and you are making me worry about you." He'd frowned. "You need sleep. Please."

He put up a little bit of a fight, but finally consented to take a nap. He pulled the cot over and settled into it. He'd rested his head next to my hip and draped his arm around my thigh. There were no injuries there; he could touch me without concern. He'd been asleep in seconds. That'd been almost 20 hours ago.

He hasn't moved.

I reach down and weave my fingers into his hair. He leans back into the touch and mumbles something incoherent. After a second, his quiet snores return. It's a sound that is as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.

I hear the door open and close and look up to see Harry walking in. She's dressed in a suit, going back to work for the first time today. She smiles at me, dropping the bag of Sherlock's food onto the sink and bringing a canvas bag over with her to the bed.

"Hi," she whispers placing a kiss on my cheek. "Is he still asleep or asleep again?"

I smile; he'd slept through dinner, vital checks, and visits from Harry, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. "Still asleep," I answer. "He's going to be pissed when he wakes up."

She lets out a quiet laugh at that, settling back into her chair and opening the canvas bag.

"I know you are going to start being awake more now, so I've brought you some survival tools." She pulls out a whole pile of items, and then reaches back in for more. "I went to the store last night and bought a tablet, she shows me the iPad. I downloaded some books for you to read, a couple of movies, and subscribed to some newspapers.

"You didn't have…"

"I know," she waves my comment away with her hand. "I wanted to. It's going to be a long hospital stay, might as well keep you entertained." She smiles and sets the iPad down. "I've also downloaded Angry Birds. Sherlock was playing it on my phone the other day. It'll give him something else to do." I smile at that. He'd taken the game off of his phone because he was spending too much time playing, so now he just usurps the phone of whoever is around him and plays on theirs. Sherlock hates the little pigs.

"I brought you some actual magazines." She sets a huge stack on the bed's tray table. "I picked up your iPod from the flat. If you need any other movies or songs let me know, I'll get them for you." She sets that on top of the magazines. "And I picked up some crossword books." She set those aside as well and sets the bag down.

"Thank you." I say looking at the pile of items she brought me.

"You're welcome." She replies. "Please let me know if you want anything specific. I know Sherlock won't hesitate to inform me of anything that you need." She smirks and looks over at him.

She looks like our mum for a moment, fondly admiring Sherlock sleeping. He's a beautiful creature all the time, but particularly so when he's asleep. He looks calm and at ease, having none of the manic energy that is so much a part of him.

"Thank you," I say again. She looks back at me, confused. "For taking care of him and staying here with him the whole time." Mrs. Hudson filled me in on what Harry did for Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson had been annoyed, feeling that Harry was enabling Sherlock's bad habits. I understood though, probably better than anyone. Sherlock wasn't going to leave, no matter what. Harry just made it as easy for him as possible. "I'm grateful that you were there for him. It couldn't have been easy. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it. So does he, even if he never says."

She is serious for a moment and nods her head in acknowledgement. She looks at him again. "I kept thinking that if you didn't make it..." she pauses and swallows. "He would be the closest thing to family that I'd have left. We'd have both needed a friend." She keeps staring at him. "It helped me to have somebody else here."

She looks at me and I can see the tears in her eyes. She quickly blinks them away, but I saw them.

"I do have a new found appreciation for what you go through on a daily basis though. He can be difficult." She smiles. I chuckle, and then wince.

"Yes, he can be." I look down at him and watch the curls slip through my fingers. "All the bad things are vastly outnumbered by all the good ones though. He amazes me."

She laughs at that, eyes lighting up with it. "That is fairly obvious." I smile too, because it is.

She stands suddenly and moves closer to me. She reaches above me and I feel her digging under my pillow.

"What…"I begin to ask her, the movement is causing some pangs in my head. She stops before I finish the question though, and sticks her hand in my face. A familiar box, a box I hadn't thought about since I woke up, is sitting in her palm. Something akin to panic starts to build up in my chest.

She just smiles at me, one arm on the bed next to my hip as she leans partially over me. "They found your clothes, Sherlock was examining them and he found this." We both look at the box. "He carried it with him the entire time you were in surgery and while you were asleep. When we were allowed to sit with you, he'd put it under your pillow. When we had to leave, he carried it with him. He hasn't been without it sense he found it. He hasn't opened it, wanting to wait for you. And nobody, I mean nobody, has been allowed to touch it. Hell, he didn't like it when we'd look at it."

She straightens and opens the box. Then gently sets it on my chest, bellow my broken ribs and above my healing abdomen. "He hasn't left this room for more than 10 minutes in two weeks. " She looks at him. "He's already said yes, John. He deserves to be asked the question."

She smiles at me again. It's one of the smug big sister smiles that drove me crazy when I was a kid. Today it doesn't bother me so much. She places a hand on one cheek and gently places a kiss on the other one. "I love you." She says. "Have Sherlock call me if you need anything. I'll be back this afternoon; I'm not working a full day." She straightens again and heads towards the door.

"Thank you," I say for the third time.

"Anytime." She walks out of the door.

I stare at the rings for a long time. It seems like so long ago that I bought them, in some ways it was. It certainly didn't happen as planned. I can think of no place less romantic to be proposed to than the hospital room where your husband-to-be is healing after almost being beaten to death. And yet, in some way, it seems oddly appropriate, which in and of itself is scary.

I turn the box slightly so that I can better see the rings. They shine in the bright lights of the room. I run a finger over them, surprised that Sherlock hadn't opened the box to see them. I guess I should be glad though, at least some part of it will be a surprise.

I turn the box again so that they are facing him. This will allow him to see them right away if I fall asleep. I put my hand back into his hair and settle back to stare at the ceiling.

I honestly expect sleep to come right away, but it doesn't. Instead, the slight pain and discomfort start to creep into my mind. Thanks to the pain killers they are fairly easy to ignore if there is something else going on, but by myself, with just the quiet, they are demanding attention.

I try and reach over and grab the iPod or one of the magazines. I can't quite reach my tray table though, and pain shoots through my chest and ribs in protest. I stop trying. A moment later one lanky arm reaches up and across me. It settles on the table and moves around for a moment before settling on the iPod. He picks it up and holds it out to me.

I look down, his head is still buried in my hip, but his breathing is normal.

"Thank you" I say taking the iPod.

"How long have I been asleep?" He asks, still not looking up.

"About 20 hours." I answer. He shoots his head up at that, a glare on his face, ready to chastise me for not waking him. Instead, his eyes land on the open box. The glare fades immediately and something close to wonderment crosses his features.

I watch him. He has red marks on his face from the sheet. His hair is shooting out in all different directions, curling at will. His features have the droopy look of sleep. He looks gorgeous.

I don't say anything, I just watch him and after a moment he gingerly reaches a hand up and touches them. A smile quirks on his lips as he brushes a finger across them.

"I thought it might be coming or at least I thought we'd talk about it." He says. "I thought about starting the conversation myself, but you are so much better at the…emotional things." He looks up, meeting my eyes, a rare self-deprecating smile on his face. "I didn't think it was going to be that night though." He looks back at the rings, continually moving his index fingers across them. "I was surprised when I found them in your jacket. I didn't think you were quite ready."

I smile at that. "I probably wasn't." I confess. "I was terrified you'd say no, or think it was a stupid idea, or laugh…"

His eyes shoot back to me, a hint of disappointment in them. "I would never have done that. I'd never laugh at you."

I reach a hand to his curls again. I actually have to lift off the bed slightly and a twinge of discomfort ripples through my ribs. "I know that, really." I respond. "It wasn't a rational fear." He stares at me for a moment, then nods, accepting my words as fact. He turns his attention back to the rings.

I watch him a moment longer and something settles in my chest. "Sherlock?" He looks up at me, curious for a moment before a smile of anticipation appears. I'm nervous, despite the obvious answer I'm going to receive. I wonder if it is possible to do this and not be nervous. It doesn't matter though, I've never wanted to do anything more in my life.

"Will you marry me?" His smile grows. It makes his eyes light up and his face almost glow. I know that I'm the only one who ever gets to see him this happy.

"It feels different than I anticipated." That is as high a compliment as Sherlock can give. He sits up and maneuvers until he's even with me. He puts his weight on one elbow and gently places a hand on my cheek, running his thumb across my lips. His eyes scan my face quickly before settling on my eyes. "Yes." He says easily and leans over to places his lips against mine.

The kiss is soft and slow and doesn't deepen. It doesn't need to. He pulls back and smiles down at me again. I wonder if I look as happy as he does. I must.

He lies down even with me, placing his head close to mine, and brings the box up so that we can both look at it.

"Do you like them?" I ask after a moment. He looks at me as if I've asked a stupid question.

"I love them." He says. "You picked them." He says it in a way that suggests it should be obvious. To him it probably is.

"I had yours engraved." I bring my hand up and pull his from the box. I hold it out to him. "Read it."

He takes it and adjusts it until the light hits it so that he can read. He looks at it and a smile crosses his face, matching the one from a few minutes ago. He looks over at me, then back at the ring. I knew he'd appreciate it.

"_Incipit vita nova." __He reads. "Dante." He looks over at me. "John Watson, you are a fascinating man. I love you." _

_I smile back at him. "I love you, too." _


	10. The Nothing

Sherlock

I am waiting to meet Gareth Hamilton.

Mycroft wouldn't let me have an in person, face to face meeting with him. "You'll only end up in prison yourself. We can't have that." It was a rather ridiculous notion really. I mean, I hate the man, obviously. I hope that a building collapses on him and that his legs are stuck, and he's getting plenty of oxygen, but no water, and he dies a long slow death from dehydration. I'm not going to kill him though. It isn't worth the risk.

I am getting married. I am getting married to Dr. John Watson, who loves me, forever.

I'd never considered forever before meeting John, but now, I can't imagine a single day without him, talking to him, seeing him. I hope I never have to.

It's stupid really, almost silly on my part. It provides ammunition for someone to cause me great pain or make me do things that I would never consider otherwise. I'd kill for John, and do it gladly and without hesitation. I'd kill anyone for John, anyone.

It also distracts from my work. A case has to be particularly interesting to draw my attention away from him. My brain is significantly less efficient if he is not near me. Since he has been injured, my mind has not been able to think of anything but John's wellbeing.

In fact, other than a couple of quick consults done mostly over the phone and through photos, I haven't taken a case since he was attacked. That is 8 weeks of missed work. How many criminals could I have helped to apprehend in that time? I will have to ask Lestrade how many crimes performed in the last 8 weeks are still unsolved, that will give me a fairly accurate count.

Gareth Hamilton is responsible for all of that, he is the reason I can't work.

It is irrelevant though, no matter the case, no matter the cause I will not give up John. I will give up the work if necessary, but I can't go without John. He is vital, like oxygen. I will not lose a single day with him to just to cause bodily harm to Gareth Hamilton.

It is a wonder that I had such difficulty deciding on what to have engraved in his ring. My brain must have been malfunctioning. John can often do that to me.

The door opens on the other side of the glass partition and two guards precede him into the room and two follow him. He is smaller than I anticipated. It was hard to make out his size based solely on the video, but I expect someone taller, more menacing. He is actually about an inch shorter than John.

He is very fit though, obviously spending large amounts of time lifting weights. The muscles have a slight puffiness to them that probably wasn't there 8 weeks ago. Eight weeks ago, when he attacked John. He is losing some of his muscle mass in here. As he still has regular access to exercise equipment, I assume the loss of muscle is because he no longer has access to steroids. Steroids would also partly explain the treatment of his wife and daughter and the attack on John, though not entirely. I am not willing to place the blame solely on steroids. No one forced him to take them.

The extra muscle mass on top makes him disproportionate, awkwardly big on top, narrower through the hips and legs, and all on a fairly petite frame. He looks ridiculous; it is not aesthetically pleasing in the slightest. He should have chosen a leaner muscular physique, like John. John is very strong and perfectly proportional, with only one minor deviation. Well, _minor_ would not be the correct term.

I smile, despite myself. It has been 8 weeks since we have had sexual relations and will likely be 10 weeks or more until we will be able to again.

It seems a ridiculously long period of time to wait, but it is necessary. My desire to avoid further injury to John is probably the only thing that outweighs my desire to have sex with him. Although, I don't know how long before the scales start to adjust in favor of sex.

They sit Gareth Hamilton in the plastic chair that is bolted to the floor, securing his manacles to the proper hooks. They then exit the room instructing me to hit the button when I am ready to leave.

Gareth looks me up and down curiously. I was surprised that he'd agreed to see me as he has no knowledge of who I am. However, as I am the only person other than his mother and his solicitor who have requested to see him, I can assume he is seeking contact with the outside world. I do know that he is being kept in solitary because of threats being made against him by another prisoner. Child abusers are not well thought of behind prison walls.

Interestingly, one of the female criminal solicitors from Harry's firm visited an incarcerated client the day Gareth Hamilton was confined to for his protection. This client happens to be the one who made the threats against Gareth Hamilton. Mycroft informed me of this. Also interestingly, Harry had mentioned a going on a date with a female criminal solicitor from her firm the evening before the visit. I am not an idiot. It isn't that hard to put the pieces together. It is just another reason that Harry has earned my affection.

"Who are you?" The piece of shit asks me, looking not threatening or even violent. He looks weak, and scared, and worn down. He looks like nothing. The way most bullies do when confronted. Lestrade was right; this man was nothing more than a coward. A coward who brought a friend and waited until John's back was to him. A coward who took steroids and abused his wife and his 5-year-old daughter.

Lestrade informed us that he has made a deal with the CPS. He is going to plead guilty to the assault on John and his family, in hopes of avoiding charges of attempted murder. He is still going to prison for 20 years. He is nothing.

"Who the fuck are you, mate?" He speaks again. I snarl at him. Nothing, he is nothing.

"I am not your mate." I spit out at him. "I am the man who should kill you, but I will not. The man who you tried to kill is worth 2 million of you. You are a vile piece of trash and you are not worth the effort it took me to come here. You are worthless and I hope that you die, preferably in prison at the hands of someone bigger and more violent than you. I hope you suffer and die here."

I take a quick breath. "But I will not be the one to kill you, nor will John Watson. Your life is nothing more than a continued waste of oxygen and space."

He looks shocked, surprised, and then angry. He opens his mouth and starts to speak. I do not listen. I turn and head towards the door, hitting the button letting the guards know that I am leaving. I turn the knob and exit, Gareth Hamilton's pointless words bouncing off the metal door as it closes behind me.

I have to get back to the hospital, back to John. I have to stop by the flat and pick up clothes for him to wear home. They expect that he will be leaving in the next few days.

I have to stop and pick John's ring up from the jeweler. I must check the engraving for inaccuracy, but I have little doubt. It appears that John picked an excellent jeweler to purchase our rings from.

I should not be surprised by this at all. Dr. John Watson has wonderful taste in all things.


	11. Love is

John

My head is hurting, not as badly as it has, but pretty badly. Hannah Hamilton bouncing around the room isn't doing much to help it. Her mother is wrapping it up though. I am honestly glad that they came by, I'm glad they are ok.

I look down at the Get Well/Thank You card that Hannah made for me. It has a picture of a doctor, me, and a little girl, her. It says, in the backwards writing of a 5-year-old, I hope you feel better and thank you. I smile at it, I can't help it.

"Ok, Hannah, pick up your doll and say good-bye." Elizabeth stands from the chair, offering a smile. She still has tears in her eyes; she's cried almost the whole visit. I understand why, but it isn't necessary. She did nothing wrong.

She's moving to back to Blackpool to live with her mother; she's already got a job lined up as a waitress. Her husband is going to jail for 20 years and she's already started divorce proceedings. Her daughter appears to have adjusted to the changes in her life quickly, children are resilient like that. I have confidence that they will come out of this better than before.

She stands and offers a hand to Hannah just as the door opens. Sherlock walks in. He has a smile on his face and it drops upon seeing the unexpected guests. He then glances at me and probably notes that my head is aching. He frowns and opens his mouth to insist that they leave. Then he closes it, probably noticing they are in the process of doing just that, or noticing who they are. Although, I doubt the realization of who they are would prevent him from kicking him out.

He tosses the overnight bag he is carrying into the corner and lets the door close behind him.

Elizabeth smiles up at him. I do quick introductions and Hannah offers her hand to Sherlock dutifully. He shakes it, offering her a pacifying smile that doesn't even come close to his eyes. She's young though and doesn't seem to notice.

"Say good-bye to Doctor Watson." Elizabeth says again. "And thank you."

Hannah and her dark hair stand next to the side of the bed, her head barely making it above the edge. "Thank you," she smiles at me in that small child, impish way, "Good-Bye. We're going to Blackpool to live with Nan."

"I know." I say. Smiling down at her and offering her my hand. "You be good there and take care of your Mummy. Ok?"

"Ok." She agrees bouncing away from the bed and towards her mother. Elizabeth eyes me from the doorway again, fresh tears brimming in her eyes.

"Thank you." She says sincerely. "And I am so sorry."

I shake my head, causing it to ache but her apology isn't necessary. I notice Sherlock frown as I don't manage to hide the increase in pain from him. "Stay safe and be happy." I say to her. She nods her head, looks at me mournfully and leaves. I wonder, vaguely, if I still look that bad. I certainly feel a thousand times better than I did 8 weeks ago, not perfect by any means, but human again.

I lean my head back against the pillow and notice when Sherlock dims the lights. It is almost instant relief, the throbbing tones down. A moment later I feel Sherlock's weight settle in the bed beside me. He still sleeps on the cot, but after 8 weeks in here he can safely lie next to me when we are both awake. I'm almost always sitting on one side of the bed, leaving the other side open for him. It feels so good to have that weight settle there.

"You shouldn't have let them stay." He says, and I'm surprised he isn't upset they were here. He probably is, but he'll keep it from me. He'll know I was glad to see them. It is far from the ideal outcome, but fundamentally, it was worth it if Hannah and Elizabeth can live and not be afraid.

I am very well aware that Sherlock feels differently about this. Nothing was worth this as a far as he is concerned.

"They weren't here long." I say. "The headache just came on."

He sighs, but doesn't argue with me. Instead, he places a kiss on my temple and settles next to me. We sit in silence for a long time. I balance on the edge of sleep several times, the odd thoughts that permeate the sleep/dream line floating around me. I continually try and push them away. If I actually fall asleep Sherlock will climb out of bed and either settle in his chair or on the cot. I like him right where he is, warm and heavy against my side.

"Where did you go?" I ask him. Although I know already, Mycroft let the cat out of the bag.

"I saw him. He is worthless and we need never to discuss him again." He pauses. "Unless you need to, of course." I smile at that.

"I think I'm ok with never talking about it again, but I'll let you know if that changes." I feel him nod.

"I also went to the jewelers." This causes me to open my eyes and lift my head. It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it would have when he first arrived.

"Why?" I ask, genuinely curious.

He's quiet for a moment, but I watch him fidget. The room light is muted from the ceiling, but it is still light outside and it is streaming through the window. I can see him clearly, he is nervous. I just watch him, giving him the few moments that he needs.

"I had your ring engraved." He says, looking down the bed and not at me. He'd been uncertain at the prospect of picking something for me, nervous over what to say. I'd told him he didn't have too, but he'd insisted. Then he began his quest to find the perfect thing. He had done extensive research into quotes about love, and marriage, and happiness. He'd read me some of the sappier ones, or the ones that were too long.

He will never understand that watching him look so extensively for something was just as important to me as whatever words he ultimately chose. I didn't mention it, just let him search.

I hold my hand out, expectantly, wanting the ring. Anxious to see what he decided on, knowing him it could be anything. He looked up at me finally, face revealing his own nerves. He is wondering if he made the right decision. I push down a chuckle. It could be a recipe for ginger beer and I'd be happy. Whatever he has decided on was given more thought than most of his cases. I am the only one who warrants that.

He looks me over expectantly for a moment, imploring me to understand whatever it is that he chose. I, once again, just wait him out. After a minute, he pulls the box out and I watch him open it and hand me my ring.

I have to turn slightly to pick up the sun light, but manage it.

_…the triumph of imagination over intelligence-SH_

My chest tightens and my throat goes dry. I understand immediately and look up at him so that he can read the understanding on my face. He smiles, before letting out a long breath. He's relieved, that makes my smile grow.

I look back at the ring and read the inscription a few more times.

I met this man almost two years ago. I thought he was awkward and insane, but he'd quickly proved just how smart he was. How much he valued intelligence.

For a long time, I thought intelligence was all that he valued. For a long time, it was all that he valued.

Not any more though. He changed, reevaluated. He's telling me that I am more important, that this love that we share is more important, and that our marriage will be more important. The triumph of imagination, emotion, feelings…love. Love is more important than intelligence.

My smile is causing my cheeks to hurt. I tip my head so that I can place a quick kiss against his lips. It lingers a few moments longer than I anticipated causing my neck to twinge as the pain shoots up my head. I must wince, or strain, or stiffen, because Sherlock pulls back. He gently brings a hand up and turns my head. I lay back on the pillow and he starts to massage those glorious fingers into my neck.

God, I want to go home and sleep in my bed. God, do I want to sleep in my bed.

I might as well have spoken the words.

"Soon," he says, "the idiots insist it will only be a few more days now." I close my eyes. He gently pulls on the ring and I release it. After a moment I hear the box close and his arm slipping under my pillow to put it where it belongs.

I wonder if he's going to keep them under our pillows when we get home. I smile at the idea and I feel him smile against me as he places another kiss against my temple. "Go to sleep." He whispers, his breath puffing against my ear. I feel the faint pang of desire, good to know it didn't get completely lost.

He takes my left hand and starts massaging the pressure point between my thumb and index finger. Between that and the action on my neck, I know I will be asleep soon.

"I love you." I say feeling the darkness over take me. I know he replies, but I don't hear it.

*The whole quote is _Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence_. And it was said by H.L Mencken.

**I intended for this to be the end of this story, but alas, there will be an epilogue.


	12. Home  Epilogue

A/N – Wrote this doped up on cold meds. That might come across. Sorry.

John

Mrs. Hudson wraps her arms around me and squeezes tighter than is comfortable. My sharp intake of breath is lost on her, but Sherlock manages to disentangle her from me. She just saw me last evening when she stopped by the hospital, this seems a little extreme.

"I'm so glad you are back home with us." She exclaims, clapping her hands together in front of her face. There are actually tears brimming in her eyes. I grab her upper arm and place a kiss on her cheek.

"Not nearly as glad as I am to be here."

Her smile grows before she starts bustling around. "I've made dinner for you boys, it's in the oven. I'll bring it up in an hour when it's done. Is there anything else you are going to need?"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock speaks. "We'll see you in an hour with dinner. I'm going to get John upstairs now. Thank you." He places a kiss on her cheek and puts his hand on the small on my back, encouraging me to move. I head up the stairs and into the building.

I eye the insides stairs ominously and take a minute to look around the hall. It looks exactly the same as when I left. It smells the same, with the slight hint of laundry that comes when washing is being done. It feels so good to be here, I very well could never have stepped into this room again.

"Do you need me to go up and get your cane?" Sherlock asks, closer behind me than I realized.

"No." I don't want to have to use that cane, ever. "I think I can make it fine, just going to take it slow."

His hand is on my back again, this time between my shoulders to stabilize. He's going to stay behind me.

I put a hand on either bannister and begin the slow climb. The first half is rather easy, but I'm exhausted as I reach the top and my ribs are aching.

Sherlock is a steady weight behind me as I move towards the living room. I hear him drop the overnight bag, watching me intently as I collapse onto the couch.

"You should go to bed." He states. "You need more rest."

I nod, "In a minute." I smile up at him. He nods and settles next to me on the couch. I reach a hand out and interlock our fingers.

I look around the flat. It's so good to be here, but also feels weird. It's like coming home after a long trip and realizing that your home continued to exist while you were away. It feels like home, but different. I feel vaguely out of place.

It's clean, very clean. Probably the cleanest it's been since we've lived here. I know that Sherlock initially cleaned it as part of my anniversary surprise. I also know, mostly from Mrs. Hudson, that Sherlock has had the flat cleaned weekly. He discovered that since I had my spleen removed I will be more susceptible to infection; he's trying to avoid that. I know that his overprotectiveness will fade as life gets back to normal, but I intend to enjoy the cleanliness until then.

"It's good to be home." I say squeezing his fingers. "So good to be home."

He smiles at me and nods, understanding. It's probably very good to have me home too. Sherlock hasn't spent much time here either. He only slept here one night and that was by accident. He fell asleep after taking a shower. He'd been horrified at himself when he managed to storm into the hospital room at 4am, and then felt guilty about waking me up.

He hadn't believed me that it was perfectly fine for him to sleep at home. I hadn't pushed him on it. I should feel guilty, but I liked having him with me. I liked waking up and having him there. I am really looking forward to waking up with him in our bed.

I bring his hand up to my lips and kiss his knuckles. "Thank you," I say.

"For what?" He looks at me as if I've said something ridiculous.

I smile at him. "For taking care of me, it had to be boring."

She shakes his head emphatically, squeezing my fingers. "There are many reasons I never want to go through an experience like this again, thousands probably, but boredom wasn't one of them."

I open my mouth to apologize, but he cuts me off. "You would not accept an apology from Elizabeth Hamilton, because the actions had nothing to do with her. She is not accountable for her husband's behavior. You certainly aren't accountable. You are a victim, just like she was. You have nothing to apologize for, especially to me."

I nod and keep my apology to myself. I still feel bad though, I know it wasn't easy for him.

"Mrs. Hudson's going to be up here in 45 minutes. Will you lie down with me until she gets here? I can't tell you how much I want to climb into bed with you."

He smiles at that, one of his seductive ones. The pangs of arousal are growing stronger and stronger every day. It's more of an enjoyable surprise to me, my body still so far from being able to handle sex. It feels good. I know it is much harder for Sherlock, still perfectly healthy and perfectly capable. He hasn't complained though, even when he realized it will probably be a couple more months before we can. I wonder if we'll be able to hold out that long. We aren't particularly good at resisting each other.

"That is a brilliant idea Dr. Watson. I'm glad that your brain seems to be in proper working order." He stands and bends over to help me do the same. I manage most of it myself, but it's nice to have the additional support.

He takes my hand and leads me towards the downstairs bedroom, it is generally the spare bedroom, but the prospect of another set of stairs is daunting. Leave it to Sherlock to have thought of this already. As we enter the room, I notice that some of my clothes are hanging in the closet. I'd imagine that the dresser is also full of clothes that are temporarily relocated.

God I love this man.

He quickly throws the covers back and directs me to sit on the side of the bed. He kneels in front of me and gently pulls my shoes off.

"Do you want pyjamas?" He asks, resting a hand on either of my knees.

"No, I'm fine." I wore sweats home; they are perfectly comfortable to sleep in.

"Ok," he says and stands, kicking his own shoes off as he walks around the bed. I lie back gently and settle into the mattress. I close my eyes, savoring the moment as Sherlock climbs into bed next to me. It isn't our bed, but it's close enough. It is in our home and Sherlock is in it.

He rolls onto his side and moves close to me, gently draping an arm across my abdomen. The incision for the intestinal surgery has healed nicely, and doesn't hurt unless there is a lot of pressure. His arm, carefully, placed doesn't even cause a twinge.

He places his head on my pillow and kisses just above my ear.

"I love you John." He says quietly. "I am so glad that you are home."

"Me, too." I say tilting my head to the side until it's resting against his forehead.

I take as deep of a breath as I can without pain and hold it. I can smell Sherlock and it smells like home, wonderful, glorious, beautiful home. I came so close to never experiencing any of it again.

The peace won't last. I don't want it to, but I can enjoy it. I close my eyes and will be asleep in seconds. Life doesn't get better than this.


End file.
